


Misfit Angels, or: The Stupidest Houseguest

by jane_with_a_j



Category: Good Omens (TV), The Stupidest Angel (Christopher Moore)
Genre: Angels love cocoa, Asexual Relationship, Aziraphale is too nice for his own good, Crossover, Humor, M/M, Someone is overstaying his welcome, a bit of cluelessness about the whole asexual relationship thing, blessed be the minimarshmallows, but also a bit of a bastard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-26 22:27:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20397148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_with_a_j/pseuds/jane_with_a_j
Summary: Aziraphale isn't the only angel in hot water with Heaven.  Now, he finds himself with an unexpected houseguest.  Raziel is not the brightest of angels, but how bad could it be, having him hanging around?  And what does the Archangel Michael have to do with all of this?





	Misfit Angels, or: The Stupidest Houseguest

**Author's Note:**

> So this story mostly exists because my copy of Good Omens lives on the same shelf as my Christopher Moore books.
> 
> What if, said my brain, what if the stupidest angel, from the novel of that name, had to crash on Aziraphale's couch for some reason?
> 
> What a ridiculous idea, I told my brain. I'm not writing that.
> 
> And yet, here we are.

Aziraphale had, in the over 6000 years he'd been on Earth, sworn out loud only twice. In his defence, he _had_ been sorely provoked at the time. The words had been entirely appropriate to the situation. Crowley, of course, hadn't believed that he would swear at all. Had called him a liar, right to his face. So when, on a certain Tuesday morning, approximately six months after the world had failed to end, Aziraphale found himself, once again, sorely provoked to the point of using _language_, at least this time, he had the satisfaction of knowing that Crowley was there to hear it.

It happened like this.

They were in the bookshop, going through a box of new inventory together1, when the door opened. The man who walked in was unusual for three reasons. The first was how astonishingly attractive he was. At least six and a half feet tall, with a lean, muscular build, a classically handsome face, and a cascade of golden hair that curled around well-built shoulders. The second was that, despite the dismal, sleety rain that was bucketing down outside, his coat flapped open, he carried no umbrella, and he was still somehow completely dry. The third was something more difficult to describe, a certain aura about him. Aziraphale recognized it immediately, sensed it before he even looked up. Like recognizes like. The man was, in fact, an angel. Not just any angel, Aziraphale realized, as he took in the new arrival.

“Oh, _bugger_,” he said. “Not _him_.”

Crowley started. Looked up. Saw the angel in the doorway. His thought process was visible on his face. Strange angel. Danger. So far, since their failed attempts to execute Aziraphale and Crowley, Heaven and Hell alike had left them alone, but it was only a matter of time until _someone_ made a move. Crowley stepped forward, placing himself between Aziraphale and the angel at the door, doing his damnedest to radiate demonic menace. Aziraphale huffed out a sigh. He reached out to put a hand on Crowley's arm, to tell him it was alright, or, well, not exactly _alright_, but not what he was thinking. Before he could so much as open his mouth, however, the angel at the door spotted him.

“Zee!” he exclaimed. “Buddy! Long time no see!” His voice was American-ish, an oddly clipped version of a California surfer drawl with a trace of an accent no living person would have been able to place, but that Aziraphale recognized as Aramaic. The newcomer strode across the room, brushing past Crowley as if he weren't even there, and swept Aziraphale into an extremely tight, extremely uncomfortable bear hug that left his feet dangling six inches off the floor.

“Ah, right, yes,” said Aziraphale, patting the other angel awkwardly on the back while staring over his shoulder, making _save me_ faces at Crowley. “It has been a long time, Raziel. Quite a long time –_hnk_\- indeed.” It was a good thing he didn't technically need to breathe. “What –_hnng-_ what are you doing here?”

“I was in England,” said Raziel, finally setting Aziraphale back down, “and I heard you'd been up to some interesting things this past year. So I just thought I'd come say hello to my old buddy Zee!” He grinned, showing off flawless white teeth.

Aziraphale brushed off his sleeves and straightened his bow tie. Angels were notoriously bad liars, and Raziel was worse at it than most. Besides which, it was hardly accurate to say that they had ever been “buddies.” They'd met several times, both in Heaven and here on Earth, but they had never been friends. Aziraphale took a step back, fixed the other angel with a stern look, and waited.

“Fine,” said Raziel, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “I messed up a high-profile miracle and the Archangels are angry. I needed somewhere to go, and I heard you pissed Heaven right off and got away with it, so ... here I am.”

“So, you're looking for a place to-” what was the expression? “-crash?”

“Just for a little bit,” said Raziel. “Until it all blows over.”

It was at that moment that Crowley finally spoke. “Aziraphale,” he said, circling around and placing himself, once again, between the two angels. “You're being positively _rude_.” He flashed Aziraphale a grin, though there was still an unspoken question in his voice. “Aren't you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Of course,” Aziraphale said. “Raziel, this is Crowley.2 Crowley, this is Raziel. He's-” _An idiot. And extraordinarily irritating. But harmless._

“An old friend,” said Raziel, his grin reappearing. Then, suddenly, his eyes widened. “Oh, hey, is this the demon?”

“Yesssss,” said Crowley, allowing a bit of a hiss to slip into his voice. “I'm a demon.” He extended his hand. “Currently on the outs with Hell, of course.” He flashed the angel his most affable smile. Raziel stared at Crowley's outstretched hand. “You shake it,” said Crowley helpfully. “S'a human thing,” he added, after a moment, when Raziel didn't react. “I'm not going to _burn_ you or anything,” he said.

Aziraphale decided that now was a good time to interject. “What happened, Raziel? Is this about your little zombie apocalypse?” 3

“Ngk,” said Crowley. Aziraphale looked over at him. _Zombie apocalypse? _Crowley mouthed. Aziraphale shook his head slightly. _Later_.

“Ha,” said Raziel. “So you heard about that.”

“I'm afraid everyone's heard about that,” said Aziraphale.4

“I haven't heard about that,” said Crowley.

“I put it back right,” said Raziel defensively. “Fixed the timeline. Everyone was happy, and a Merry Christmas was had by all. Don't know why everyone's so sore.”

A temporal reset, Aziraphale knew, was a costly miracle. He wasn't surprised at all that Heaven was upset, but he was polite enough not to say so.

“So,” said Raziel brightly, “can I stay here for a while?”

_No_, Aziraphale wanted to say. _Absolutely not. It's out of the question. No._ But he couldn't quite get the words out. He glanced over at Crowley, who was grinning in obvious amusement. No help there. “Fine,” he said, after a moment. “For a few days, anyway.”

“Sounds delightful,” said Crowley. “I'll just go and get us all some drinks, shall I? And then you can tell us all about your zombies.”

“Oh, hey,” said Raziel. “Is it true that you two are...” he paused, looking from one to the other. “You know.” He made a series of loud kissing noises.

“Oh, dear Lord,” said Aziraphale, over the sound of Crowley's sputtering laughter.

\--

On the first day, Aziraphale offered to make his guest some cocoa.

“With mini marshmallows?” asked Raziel hopefully.

“If you like,” said Aziraphale. “I think I have some.”

Raziel pumped his fist in the air. He jumped to his feet and followed Aziraphale into the tiny kitchenette. The better quality cocoa was in a tin on the top shelf. Aziraphale realized he was out of marshmallows. There were, as luck would have it, a few packets of cheap, instant cocoa with crusty, dehydrated mini marshmallows in a drawer. Aziraphale couldn't recall where he had gotten them. He wasn't even sure how old they were. He hesitated a moment before opening the drawer and pulling them out. Nothing in his kitchen ever spoiled, so they should be fine. He wondered if he should feel guilty about offering his guest the cheap cocoa. But then again, marshmallows. He set two mugs down on the counter, grabbed a small pan and set to heating up the milk.5 When he turned around, Raziel had torn open the cocoa packets and was poking through them, picking out the dried marshmallows and dropping them into one of the mugs. He had, in the process, managed to spill cocoa powder all down the front of his shirt.

\--

On the second day, Raziel asked about the hellfire. He was just curious, he said, around a mouthful of sugar-sweetened breakfast cereal, how Aziraphale had done it. Hellfire should have killed him. Aziraphale replied that he was fully aware of that fact, and no, he wasn't about to tell Raziel anything about it. It had not been a pleasant experience, and he would prefer not to talk about it, thank you.

\--

On the third day, Aziraphale was working on some recordkeeping when he was startled by enthusiastic yelling and whooping from the back room. Raziel had found his thirty-year-old CRT television, and somehow managed to pick up American professional wrestling on it. Crowley emerged a few minutes later, smirking. Aziraphale felt a headache coming on. “Stop encouraging him,” he said.

\--

On the fourth day, Raziel appeared to notice for the first time that Aziraphale didn't own a bed. There was no reason for him to, Aziraphale pointed out, since angels don't need to sleep. On the rare occasion he felt like taking a nap, the sofa served just fine.

“Well, sure,” said Raziel, “but where do you and the demon ... you know?”

Aziraphale gave him a look.

“Ah,” said Raziel. “Of course. You do it at his place.”

\--

On the fifth day, Raziel got into the vintage comic books.6 Aziraphale, with a wordless noise of dismay, shooed him away. It took a few miracles to get the marshmallow smudges off the covers.

\--

On the sixth day, Raziel got a bit maudlin.

“I miss home,” he said. “Do you ever miss home?”

Aziraphale looked up from the novel he had been attempting to read. “Do you mean Heaven?” he asked. Raziel nodded. “I don't,” said Aziraphale. “Not really. I suppose I miss ... the _idea_ of Heaven, sometimes.”

“I miss it,” said Raziel. “I've been dirtside too long.”

Aziraphale was skeptical that an angel with Raziel's temperament could ever be truly happy Upstairs, but one never really knew. “No American soap operas in Heaven,” he said, nodding at the television.

“No,” Raziel acknowledged. “No ice cream sandwiches, either.” He brightened, a little. “Can we get ice cream sandwiches later?”

“I suppose so,” said Aziraphale. He smiled, in spite of himself. Raziel's palate might not be what you'd call sophisticated, but the two angels did share a fondness for sweets.

“So you don't miss Heaven at all?” Raziel asked. “What about your friends up there?”

Aziraphale decided he might as well give up on his book for a while, and set it down. “I've been on Earth a very long time,” he said. “I don't ... exactly ... fit in, up there. Not a lot of friends to speak of.”

“Ah,” said Raziel. “Because you're a nerd.”

“Well, I-”

“A nerd who has sex with a demon, instead of smiting him like you're supposed to.”

Aziraphale pinched the bridge of his nose. “Raziel-”

“I like you, though, Zee. I'm your friend. I don't care that you're a nerd, you're nice.”

“That's, ah, very-”

“The demon is nice too,” said Raziel. “Which is weird. I think.” He paused, as if turning a thought over in his mind. “If you like him, I like him.” His lip quirked up. “Not the way _you_ like him, of course.”

“Right,” said Aziraphale. He had considered attempting to explain his relationship with Crowley, but he had a feeling he knew how that would go. Easier to just let the other angel think what he wanted.

“You're such a _good friend_,” said Raziel, suddenly overcome with emotion. “You let me stay with you, and you make me hot chocolate with mini marshmallows, and you don't give me grief over the zombie thing, or that mess with the prophets, or that time I was ten years late to announce the birth of the Saviour-”

“I didn't actually know about that last one until just now,” Aziraphale said.

“Can I tell you something?” Raziel asked.

Aziraphale nodded, mutely. Raziel was going to tell him things whether he wanted to hear them or not; that much had been clear from the beginning.

“I don't have a lot of friends up there either,” he said.

Aziraphale made a noncommittal noise.

“I thought Michael was my friend,” said Raziel, “but she's the one who kicked me out.” He picked at the blanket in his lap. “Zoe is my friend, though,” he said. “Zoe likes me.”

“I don't believe I've met Zoe,” said Aziraphale.

“She's nice. She does a lot of weather miracles. She's good with weather. I'm good with weather too. We're friends.” Raziel pulled the blanket up to his chin. “I miss Zoe.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Just how angry are they with you?”

“Pretty angry,” said Raziel. “Michael said I can't come back, unless...”

“Unless?”

“Nothing,” said Raziel, huddling down underneath the blanket. “It's nothing.” He turned his attention back to the television. Aziraphale hesitated a moment, wondering if there were something he should say here. Then, with a shrug, he picked up his book and returned to his reading.

\--

On the seventh day, Crowley came out of the back room with an incredulous expression on his face.

“Did you know,” he said, “that your friend back there thinks Spider-man is _real?_”

\--

By the end of the second week, Aziraphale was at his wits' end.

“Why don't you just tell him to leave?” asked Crowley.

“I can't do that,” said Aziraphale. “He has nowhere to go.”

“Well, surely that doesn't have to be _your_ problem, does it?”

“I seem to recall,” said Aziraphale, testily, “that you thought having him stay with me was a marvellous idea.”

“Well, yeah,” said Crowley. “Yeah. It _was_ pretty funny, at first.”

“And besides,” said Aziraphale, “Heaven seems to have turned against him. You can't really blame me for sympathizing.”

“Didn't he spill an entire bottle of chocolate milk on one of your rare Bibles the other day?”

“No one said that doing the right thing was _easy_,” said Aziraphale.

\--

Midway through the third week, on a day that was unusually pleasant for the time of year, Aziraphale decided that he wanted to take a walk in the park with Crowley. Raziel accompanied them, because Aziraphale still didn't trust him alone in the bookshop.

“I still say,” said Raziel, as they walked along the water's edge, “that there was no way I could have known that wasn't what he wanted.” Crowley opened his mouth to say something, but Aziraphale shushed him with a look. They had been over the story of Raziel's botched miracle several times already and nothing either of them could say had yet convinced Raziel that he probably should have known that no child could reasonably be expected to wish for his town to be overrun by murderous zombies at Christmas. Who knew, Crowley had whispered, maybe Raziel had a point. Kids these days, right?

“Perhaps we should change the subject,” said Aziraphale.

“Sure,” said Raziel. “Hey, demon.”

“Yes, Raziel?” said Crowley politely. If he was at all irritated that the other angel seemed utterly uninterested in attempting to remember his name, he didn't show it. If anything, it seemed to amuse him.

“I heard,” said Raziel, “that Beelzebub tried to dunk you in a vat of holy water.”

“Not exactly,” said Crowley. “For one thing, it was a bathtub, not a vat. And they didn't try to dunk me, they just ordered me in.” He grinned at Aziraphale. “Didn't even have the decency to offer me a rubber duck.”

“Hoooo,” said Raziel. “So, how is that that you aren't, you know, melted?”

At that, Crowley bared his teeth. “_That_,” he said, “is none of your business. Understand?”

Raziel, though nearly a head taller than Crowley, shrunk back under the intensity of the demon's glare. “I understand,” he said.

“Excellent,” said Crowley, adjusting his sunglasses. “Why don't we all get some lunch, then?”

\--

It was near the end of the third week that Crowley had an idea. He showed up at the bookshop one morning with an armful of electronics.

“Come on, Raziel,” he said. “Got something for you.” Raziel, who had been idly thumbing through a copy of Soap Opera Digest that he had acquired God only knew where, jumped to his feet and followed the demon into the back room. About twenty minutes later, Crowley emerged, a triumphant smile on his face.

“What was that all about?” Aziraphale asked.

“Video games!” Crowley declared. It shouldn't actually have been possible to hook up a modern video game console to Aziraphale's old television, but in Crowley's world, electronics did as they were told. “Should've thought of it sooner, really. I practically _invented_ those first-person shooter games.” He leaned over the counter towards Aziraphale, grinning widely. “And do you want to hear the best part? I brought him a set of headphones, so you'll be able to get some peace and quiet!”

“Why Crowley,” said Aziraphale gratefully, “that was a good idea. How very kind of you.”

“Shut up,” said Crowley. “I'm not _kind_.” But he did look terribly pleased with himself.

Aziraphale just shook his head and smiled. He was about to say something when the shouting started. “Is he-?”

“Ah, yeah,” said Crowley. “Should've thought of that. Some people yell at the games. A lot. Still, keeps him occupied, right?”

Aziraphale frowned. “Will it?”

“Absolutely,” said Crowley. “Those things are as addictive as... as...” he furrowed his brow. “Something really addictive,” he finished. “He'll be at it for hours. Which means that _we-_” and here he turned on his best _let me tempt you_ smile- “can get out of here for a bit. Brunch?”

\--

It was two days after that that Crowley came out of the back room, walking quite a bit faster than usual, his face very red.

“What happened?” Aziraphale asked, although he suspected he already knew.

“Nothing,” said Crowley, a little bit too quickly.

“Oh dear,” said Aziraphale. “He's still on about that, is he?” Raziel seemed to have less of a filter with every passing day. By this time, Aziraphale had gotten used to the other angel's increasingly explicit speculation about the nature of his relationship with a certain demon. “I thought you found it funny, my dear,” he added, remembering the day Raziel had arrived.

“Ngk,” said Crowley.

\--

It wasn't until the thirty-ninth day that another angel unexpectedly showed up on Aziraphale's doorstep. It was late in the evening, and Crowley had gone home, declaring his intention to get a good night's sleep. Raziel was in the back, shouting at the game the demon had given him, oblivious to anything else. Aziraphale was at his desk, reviewing his handwritten ledgers by the light of a small desk lamp, when he heard a soft knocking at the door.

He ignored it at first, but then the knock came again. He opened his mouth to call out that the store was quite definitely closed when he felt it. That same indefinable sense he got whenever a caller from Upstairs came down to the bookshop. Angel. He eyed the door warily. The knock came a third time.

“Please,” said a voice from outside. “I know you're in there; I can see the light.”

Aziraphale knew that it was not safe to be opening the door to a strange angel. Uriel and Sandalphon had quite brazenly snatched him7 from the park in broad daylight; what might they do under cover of darkness? But as far as he could tell, there was just the one angel out there now. She didn't seem to be going anywhere. He walked over to the door, unlocked it, and opened it a crack.

“Hello,” said the angel. “You're Aziraphale, right?”

Aziraphale looked her up and down, trying to work out if he had ever met her before. Her aspect was feminine: a smartly tailored A-line dress on an hourglass figure, long legs in pretty high-heeled shoes, coppery skin, and a cloud of dark, wavy hair that surrounded a delicate, oval face. Her eyes were golden. Not the rich, deep yellow-gold of Crowley's eyes, but a pale, luminous gold, like bottled sunlight. Her expression was nervous, but hopeful. She certainly looked harmless. But angels were a warrior race, and appearances could be deceiving.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“Maybe,” said the other angel. She looked down at her hands for a moment before extending the right one in front of her. “I'm Zoe,” she said, as Aziraphale cautiously shook the offered hand. “Am I doing this right?” she asked. “I don't... that is, I'm not very good at human things. Don't spend a lot of time down here these days. I read once that a handshake is supposed to be a show of peaceful intentions because it, um...”

“It shows that your hands are free of weapons,” Aziraphale finished. “Although I think most humans have forgotten where the gesture came from.”

“To be fair,” said Zoe, smiling up at him tentatively. “I could easily manifest my sword anytime I wanted to, so it's more... symbolic...” she seemed to be thinking better of her words even as they left her mouth. “I'm not here on Archangel business,” she blurted.

The name Zoe was familiar. “You're Raziel's friend,” Aziraphale said.

“Yes!” exclaimed Zoe. “Is he here? I thought he might be here.”

Aziraphale took a step back, allowing Zoe to enter the bookshop.

“YESSSSS! EAT LEAD, VILLAIN!” came Raziel's voice, from the back room.

“He's playing some sort of electronic game,” explained Aziraphale. “He's been quite engrossed in it.”

Zoe shook her head and gave a small smile. “That sounds like him,” she said. She wrung her hands. “Has he been a bother? I hope he hasn't been too much of a bother.”

Since there was no polite way to answer that, Aziraphale didn't. “Did you want to go and speak with him?” he asked.

“Yeah,” said Zoe, her gaze darting around the bookshop. “I ... do you know what happened? Why he hasn't come home?”

“You know about the botched miracle?” Aziraphale asked.

“Everyone knows about that,” said Zoe. “But there's something else. Something happened with Michael. I think. I don't know.”

“Perhaps you should ask him yourself,” said Aziraphale.

“Yeah,” said Zoe. “Maybe.” She started forward, then hesitated. “I know what he's like,” she said abruptly. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. “I know what everyone thinks of him,” Zoe went on. “I know, okay? I just ... I like him anyway. We've been friends a long time. I just want to make sure he's okay.”

“Go on, then,” said Aziraphale gently. The door to the back room was open, and light – along with Raziel's shouting – was spilling out through the doorway.

Zoe crossed the bookshop slowly. After a few steps, she stopped. “Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Is it true that you've been sleeping with a demon?”

Aziraphale didn't even blink at the question. Not after nearly six weeks with Raziel living in his back room. He didn't answer it, either, just fixed Zoe with a level stare.

“Sorry,” she said. It was difficult to tell in the darkened bookshop, but she might have blushed. “Just ... curious.” She turned away.

When she reached the open door, she raised a hand as if to knock on the doorframe, then paused. Waiting, perhaps, for the other angel to look up and see her standing there. Aziraphale couldn't see Raziel from this angle, but from Zoe's expression, he was able to spot the precise moment when the two of them locked eyes. There was a moment of silence.

“Hey, Raz,” said Zoe. “You okay?” Raziel said something in return, but for once, his voice was too soft to make out the words. Zoe passed through the doorway into the back room. Aziraphale turned and went back to his ledgers. It was as close to privacy as he was able to give them without actually leaving the building. Sound didn't carry particularly well in the cluttered bookshop. It would have to do.

\--

It was the day after that that Raziel finally came clean. Aziraphale had just brought him a mug of cocoa – he had restocked his supply of the cheap stuff with the dehydrated marshmallows, since Raziel seemed to prefer it – and Raziel was, for once, not slurping at the marshmallow goop, but staring into the mug with a wretched expression on his face.

“Is something wrong?” Aziraphale asked, mildly. It must, he presumed, have something to do with Zoe's visit the night before. Raziel had looked so forlorn when she had left.

“I have to tell you something, Zee,” said Raziel. He looked up. “I think you're going to be mad.”

Aziraphale hesitated for a moment before sitting down next to the other angel on the sofa. “I see,” he said, although he hadn't the faintest idea what this could be about. He made an attempt at an encouraging smile. “Out with it, then.”

Raziel hesitated for only a split second, and then it all came out at once. “The Archangels were really mad about the zombie thing, and Gabriel wanted to officially reprimand me, but then Michael spoke up. She said, what if I could make myself useful just by doing a simple task for them, and if I did it then they'd let me back into Heaven without any blemish on my record but if I didn't then they wouldn't let me back in at all. And Gabriel just smiled, you know that creepy smile he has ... anyway they told me what they wanted me to do and I thought it sounded easy enough even though I didn't really know why they wanted me to do it, and... and I asked Zoe, and she thinks...” he trailed off. Not out of breath, just out of nerve.

Aziraphale had to remind himself to take a breath. This was not what he had been expecting Raziel to say. Whatever this was about, if it had to do with Gabriel and Michael, then they were on dangerous ground. “What was it,” he said slowly, “that they wanted you to do?”

Raziel fixed his gaze on the mug of gooey, marshmallowy cocoa in his lap. “They wanted me to find out how you survived the hellfire,” he said.

\--

This was a bad idea.

No, it wasn't a bad idea. Aziraphale had turned it over in his mind for hours, and he was quite sure it was a good idea. An absurd idea, probably, a risky idea, definitely, but that was precisely why it was a good idea. He wished he could have talked to Crowley about it, but there had been no time. There was no way of knowing for sure whether Heaven knew about Zoe's visit last night, no way of knowing for sure that the Archangels hadn't known that Raziel would let his secret out. He didn't like feeling suspicious of Zoe, who had certainly seemed sincere, but he couldn't take the chance. In order to be convincing, this needed to be done quickly.

Crowley wouldn't have liked the idea anyway. He'd have insisted on being here, possibly even insisted on doing it himself. It wouldn't have worked. Everyone knew that demons lied. Everyone knew that demons said and did shocking things, just for the sake of the shock. Aziraphale – fussy, prim, polite Aziraphale - was the only one who could pull this off. Or at least, he hoped he could.

Raziel stood beside him, hands behind his back, his face a picture of calm. He had no idea what Aziraphale intended to do, but when Aziraphale had told him not to worry, that he would sort things out with Michael, Raziel had believed him, without question. Even promised to back him up, if Michael tried anything, which had been unexpected. Pleasantly so, to tell the truth. And so a message had been sent, and now two misfit angels were standing in the alleyway behind the bookshop, waiting.

A crackle of light from above, and then there were three angels in the alleyway. Michael had not softened her aspect the way angels usually did when they appeared on Earth. She stood before them, all pearlescent skin and piercing eyes, with just a hint of heavenly radiance illuminating the air around her. It was, Aziraphale thought, rather unsubtle.

“Good afternoon, Michael,” he said. His tone was even. Steady. He had always had a tendency to speak too quickly when keeping secrets from an Archangel. But things were different now. It wasn't that he didn't fear them anymore. But the substance of those fears had changed. He had changed. Heaven could still hurt him, certainly, but there were some things they could no longer touch.

“Aziraphale,” said Michael. “I was surprised to receive your message.”

“Were you? I imagine you know why I wanted to speak to you.”

Michael smiled without warmth. “I _imagine_,” she said, nodding in Raziel's general direction, “that it has something to do with him?”

“You sent him to spy on me,” said Aziraphale. “Honestly, Michael, I can't decide if that was a brilliant plan or an utterly idiotic one.” Listen to him, openly sassing an Archangel. Things _had_ changed.

“He told you,” said Michael. She cocked her head to one side. “Pity.”

“Raziel will be honouring his end of the bargain he made with you,” said Aziraphale. His voice was tight, and he paused, forcing himself to relax. “I will give you an answer myself, provided you honour _your_ end of the bargain.”

“I'm an angel,” said Michael. She looked Aziraphale and Raziel up and down. “A _proper_ angel,” she added. “I keep my promises.”

“You're hoping,” said Aziraphale, “that whatever it was that we did, whatever it was that allowed Crowley to survive the holy water, and me to survive the hellfire, that it's something you can counteract. Something you can undo.” His jaw tensed. “You must know that if it were something like that, I would never tell you. You're going to be disappointed.”

“Tell me,” said Michael.

“I tell you what I came here to tell you, and Raziel goes home,” said Aziraphale. “And there will be no more of this spy nonsense.”

Michael's lip twitched. “You have my word,” she said.

“Very well,” said Aziraphale. He squared his shoulders and met Michael's gaze steadily. “I had sex with the demon,” he said. “Quite a lot of it, actually.”

A half-step behind him, Raziel let out a whoop. “I knew it!” he exclaimed.

\--

“You told her _what?”_

Aziraphale reached across Crowley's stylish black marble countertop to snitch another scone from the plate that sat between them.

“Well, honestly, Crowley,” he said, “it isn't as though half of the Host hasn't jumped to that conclusion already.” He bit into the scone. It was from a new bakery that had just opened up around the corner from Crowley's flat. Rather good, he thought, although not quite as good as the ones at the café across from his bookshop. “You know what gossips angels are,” he added.

“Yeah but ... I mean ... wha- what did you ... nngh?”

Aziraphale picked up his teacup. “I implied rather heavily that the secret to it has to do with the exchange of large quantities of certain ... bodily fluids,” he said. The tea was a bit too hot, so he blew on it, gently. “I'm afraid I was rather graphic about it.” He took a sip.

“_Rather graphic about it??_”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley over the rim of his teacup. “Yes,” he said. “The whole point was to make Michael so uncomfortable that she'd rush to end the conversation and not ask too many questions.” He set the cup down. “Mission accomplished, in case you were wondering.” He was unable, at this point, to keep the mirth out of his voice. “You should have seen her face.”

Crowley's sputtering really was rather endearing. “Okay but... we don't... how did... do you even...”

“Oh come now, my dear,” said Aziraphale. “I _have_ been living among humans for six millennia. I'm a being of _love_. And besides-” he paused to pick up his cup and take another sip of tea- “one of the advantages of not sleeping is that one finds other, more interesting ways to occupy one's nights.”

At that, Crowley's mouth fell open.

“Reading, Crowley,” said Aziraphale. “I was talking about reading.” He hid a smile behind the teacup.

Crowley shut his mouth, but his eyebrows were still somewhere in the vicinity of his hairline. “What, exactly, have you been reading?” he asked.

“You know perfectly well about the books in the annex,” Aziraphale replied. “You've teased me about them often enough.”

“You've actually _read_ them?”

“Well, of course I have! I've read every book in the bookshop. It wouldn't be proper not to have done.”

“Nah, no, of course not,” said Crowley. “Not proper.” He paused to collect himself. “D'you think,” he asked after a moment, “that any of them will try it?”

Aziraphale couldn't restrain a laugh. “I have no idea,” he said. “Although... I have heard some rumours about Gabriel and Beelzebub.”

“Ngk,” said Crowley. “Thank you so much for that mental image.” He drummed his fingers on the countertop. Then, without warning, his face broke into a wide, toothy grin. “Angel,” he said.

Aziraphale was helping himself to another scone. “Hmm?”

“Does this mean you've thought about it?”

“Thought about what, my dear?”

“_You_ know.” Crowley waggled his eyebrows. “Me and you.”

Aziraphale nearly choked on the scone.

“You're teasing me,” he accused.

“You were teasing me first.” Crowley snickered. “Turnabout's fair play, angel.” He swung his long legs around and stood up. “Come on,” he said. “I know Raziel's been hogging your television for the past six weeks, so I've been recording that baking show you like.”

The sofa was still relatively new. Crowley had acquired it after the failed apocalypse, when Aziraphale had started coming around to his place regularly. Its design was as sleek and minimalist as everything else in his flat, but it was, somehow, also extraordinarily comfortable.8 Crowley dropped down on the sofa beside Aziraphale, put his feet up on the coffee table, then slung an arm around the angel's shoulders and leaned in to speak directly into his ear.

“Don't ever do that again,” he said.

Aziraphale turned his head slightly, trying to get a look at Crowley's face. “Do what?” he asked.

“Go to face an Archangel alone,” he said.

“Technically,” said Aziraphale, “I wasn't alone. Raziel was with me. And before you say anything-” he held up a hand. “I knew him, back in the old days. You might be surprised how good he was with a sword.”

“I don't care,” said Crowley. His grip tightened. “I'm serious, angel. After everything that's happened ... I can't lose you.” He pulled back then, just far enough that he could look Aziraphale directly in the eyes. “Promise me,” he said.

Aziraphale smiled up at him. “I love you, too,” he said.

“Don't try to distract me, angel,” Crowley growled. “Promise me.”

“Fine,” said Aziraphale. “I promise.” He kissed the tip of Crowley's nose. “I still think it was a good plan,” he added.

Crowley hissed at him.

“Oh, hush, you old serpent,” said Aziraphale. “I said I promise, and I meant it. Now, I want to see what that nice man is putting in his shortbreads.”

He settled comfortably, his head resting on Crowley's shoulder, and smiled to himself. Before leaving, Raziel had hugged him, called him a kinky bastard, and promised to keep in touch. Aziraphale had to admit, it was nice to think he had a friend Upstairs, even if that friend was the terminally clueless Raziel. It was, he supposed, no more improbable than anything else about his life in this new, post-not-apocalyptic world.

Yes, he thought, as he cuddled on the couch with a demon, this rather improbable life of his suited him perfectly.

1 Crowley had been spending a lot more time at the bookshop since the day the apocalypse hadn't happened, attempting to be helpful while at the same time attempting to maintain the pretense that he didn't read books, nope, not him, he barely even knew what a book _was_. Aziraphale wasn't fooled, and Crowley knew it. It was hardly a secret that Crowley, over the centuries, had counted nearly as many great writers among his friends as Aziraphale himself had.

2 In point of fact, Crowley and Raziel had met once before, approximately two thousand years earlier, during the time when Raziel had been assigned to watch over a young man known to his friends as Josh. Of course, Crowley had looked somewhat different back then, and Raziel, who was not the most perceptive of angels, didn't come close to recognizing him now. It was, Crowley thought, probably for the best.

3 “Apocalypse” was almost certainly too strong a word for what had actually happened. It had been one small churchyard's worth of dead, in one small California town. No big deal, really. Or at least, that was what Raziel had been telling everyone.

4 Aziraphale hadn't been on speaking terms with anyone from Upstairs in over six months, and he had still managed to hear about it within a week of it happening. Angels are terrible gossips.

5 The instructions on the instant cocoa packet were just to add boiled water, but Aziraphale believed in doing these sorts of things properly.

6 Aziraphale had, over the centuries, developed an excellent sense of which writers were going to make a mark on the literary world, and, consequently, which books were likely to end up being prized by collectors. As a result, he had acquired a number of valuable first editions simply by having had the presence of mind to purchase interesting books when they were first published. Since he had maintained personal friendships with a number of the authors, many of them were signed. It was a slow, but ultimately simple way to build an impressive collection. One thing Aziraphale had completely failed to anticipate, however, was the popularity and collectability of golden- and silver-age comic books. He had, therefore, not built up a collection when the comics were first published, and had only recently begun to collect them the way an ordinary human collector would do, slowly, and at some expense. It was rather fun, at times. At others, it was simply frustrating. Doing things the human way is hard.

7 Well, it hadn't actually been him. But they hadn't known that, and they still didn't know that, and they were never going to know that.

8 All of Crowley's furniture was, in spite of appearances, extremely comfortable. He expected it to be, and so it was.


End file.
